A Madness Most Discreet
by Lady-of-the-Refrigerator
Summary: Life on the run isn't all it's cracked up to be. Red and Liz deal with the consequences. [Sequel to An Ever-Fixed Mark, Soulmate AU, Lizzington]
1. Chapter 1 - Prologue

_Early November 2013_

Red lowered himself to sit next to Lizzy on the cold, stone stair, close enough that his side pressed against hers. She leaned her head on his shoulder, still staring off in a daze. He sighed, wrapping his arm around her back and pulling her tighter still into his side.

Red wished idly that Lizzy chose a different hiding place to process what had happened, somewhere a little more forgiving on his tired, old bones. He wasn't alone in his exhaustion, however; weariness permeated every inch of both of their bodies. He was only one hundred percent certain Lizzy hadn't dozed off against his shoulder when she started to speak.

"I have to tell him. I'm sorry, I know it'll screw everything up, but I have to."

"Of course. You have nothing to apologize for. I mean, God, we thought…" He shook himself mentally. "I told you before we left that there were options. It's just a shame the timing is so…"

"I know," she said, "I know. This is crazy, isn't it? We should just…" She trailed off, her jaw working awkwardly.

"We probably should, but you obviously don't want to and neither do I, so honestly? I don't give a shit what we _should_ do in this instance. We'll figure it out."

Lizzy tilted her head so she could search his eyes. "Are we being selfish here?" she asked.

"Yes," he said simply, "but I really don't care. Do you?" The corner of her mouth curved up in a sad, sleepy smile and she rested her head on his shoulder again; he pressed a lingering kiss to her temple.

"Even if I don't deserve another chance, you sure as hell do. If I can offer that to you, I wouldn't dream of…" He clenched his jaw, shook his head sharply. "We'll figure it out. Somehow. I promise you that."


	2. Chapter 2

_Late November 2013_

Red barely had time to hang up his coat before Liz cornered him. The last couple weeks had been a logistical nightmare. A terrible sense of foreboding settled over her when they couldn't reach Sam right away. She'd become more and more desperate with every passing day and today… today had been especially bad.

"Do you have any news? When can we leave?"

"Lizzy, come here. Sit down with me." Offering her a pained smile, he held out his hand. With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she took it.

He led her to the sofa, sitting with a leg tucked under him so he could face her fully. He cradled her hand in his, traced the bright, red lines of her tattoo as he was wont to do as of late. It was a reminder, she thought. A reassurance. She hadn't chosen him on a whim any more than he'd chosen her.

"There's something I have to tell you. About Sam."

Her eyes slid shut for a moment; she braced herself, screwed up her courage, and met his eyes again.

"The cancer came back, didn't it?"

Red nodded, unsurprised that she guessed so quickly. She took a slow, deep breath. Truth be told, she thought she knew as soon as Red did. The emotions they shared, they didn't come with an instruction manual, but the two of them were pretty good at working on instinct, especially where the other was concerned. She had developed a knack for deciphering what he was feeling. Earlier that day, he'd been awash with nothing short of despair.

"It's terminal," he said, solemn, apologetic. "I thought about waiting until we got there, letting him tell you himself, but…"

"But he'd downplay it. I'd end up having to weasel the truth out of the doctor like last time."

The tears would come, later. Right now she was… numb. She didn't know how many more shocks she could take before it started to affect her aversely.

"Why didn't he tell me he was sick? Why doesn't he ever tell me when he's sick?"

"Out of some misguided attempt to protect you?"

She gave an indignant huff. "All the men in my life are idiots," she said. "No offense."

"None taken."

She turned his hand over at the wrist, traced the veins up his forearm idly. She needed the contact, sure, but it felt like he needed it more than she did lately. For the most part, she was calmer these days when he was away, at least in regards to the separation. Red didn't take the distance nearly as well; she had two pet theories as to why that was the case, each of them equally likely and possibly both true.

"How is this going to affect our visit?" she asked, after a while.

"I'm not going to lie to you. It would have been easier if he wasn't in the hospital. We could have met discreetly at a location my people could ensure was secure. That's no longer an option. There's always a chance your old task force has Sam under surveillance on the off chance the reports of your kidnapping were… greatly exaggerated. Anything out of the ordinary might tip them off."

"Can't you find out if they do?"

"I have Grey on it, but we can never be one hundred percent certain." 

* * *

They were blindsided. Totally and completely.

Set up. Sold out. _Betrayed_.

It was over and done with almost as soon as it began. Too quick for them to escape, to come up with a suitable back-up plan.

Liz could have lived the rest of her life without seeing the sharp, animal panic in Red's eyes as the agents swarmed them and led them off in different directions before they even made it past the nurses' station. To add insult to injury, they weren't even in the right hospital. Someone must have alerted the FBI and Sam had been moved quietly in anticipation of their visit.

The rush of blood in her ears drowned out the chaos surrounding them as their eyes locked, and she knew in that moment if Red hadn't been afraid she'd be injured in the fallout, he would have torn through anyone and everyone who stood in his way in order to get to her. That kind of devotion… It was alien to her. She hoped he kept a cool head once he was alone with them and the separation started to whisper its hideous lies into his subconscious.

There was a mole in Red's organization, leaking plans, schedules, locations… Someone would pay for those transgressions dearly. If she and Red ever got the chance to see the light of day again, that is. If anything happened to Red before they got out of this, she'd do it herself.

She'd make sure whoever was responsible suffered. 

* * *

"Where's my father? Is he getting the care he needs or did you guys just dump him in whatever rat-infested little shithole was the most convenient for—"

Ressler's sigh was the long suffering sigh of a man who had spent the last hour listening to Liz turn the interrogation room tables on the last two agents. Too bad. He should have had the backbone to do it himself in the first place.

"For the last time, Keen, your father is safe. He's a civilian, we're not going to treat him as if he's guilty by association. Unless there's something you want to tell us. You seem to have a talent for attracting criminals."

Liz pursed her lips. That was a low blow. Well, two could play at that game.

"Where's Meera? Or does Red get the bad cop first?"

She should watch her tone, she knew she should. Taunting Ressler like that, showing such a blatant disregard for his authority wasn't wise in the least. Liz kept a tight rein on this side of herself since she was a teenager, locked away and boarded up in a battered corner of her mind, buried beneath her good grades and her degree and her FBI academy sweatshirt. It was amazing how easily she slipped back into this persona—the sharp-tongued gutter punk who could talk herself out of any situation working off of nothing but sheer adrenaline and nerve, and who would pick your pocket for good measure.

"You can interrogate me all you want," she said, when he refused to rise to her bait. "I won't talk unless Red's here with me."

Ressler gave her an unfathomable look, before he shook his head and rolled his eyes. "You two are impossible. He's been saying the same thing. God knows what the hell you've done to earn that kind of loyalty from him. Anyone else he'd sell out for a new Zegna tie and a Cuban cigar."

"Speaking of selling people out," she said, "do you have any idea who sold _him_ out?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Ressler, come on. Surely you don't think after five years of evading you day in and day out, he'd suddenly slip so badly that you'd catch up to him in less than a month?"

"Who says anyone sold him out? Maybe we caught up to him because he was distracted this time."

"He doesn't let anything distract him enough to put his freedom in jeopardy."

"Not even you?"

Liz suppressed a wince. No. It wasn't true. Ressler had a source, she knew he did. One of Red's people was compromised. 

* * *

Ten minutes went by. Fifteen. Twenty. Ressler paced the small room, quickly losing patience with Liz, with her stubborn silence.

"Why would you run with him? Why throw your career away like that? And, let's face it, your freedom. Because we both know where this is going to end up."

"It's complicated."

"That'll do you fuck-all in front of a jury, Keen."

"I don't give a shit what a jury thinks about me."

"Well, that's good. We'll charge you under the Patriot Act, you'll never see one."

"Gee, thanks, Ressler. That really puts me in a sharing mood." She leaned back in her chair, handcuff chains clinking as she went. "Let me see Red. Prove that he's OK. Then maybe I'll think about talking."

"Keen, Reddington's a cold-blooded killer! He's an opportunistic sociopath, he's toppled governments, financed wars, facilitated terrorist attacks… He has the blood of tens of thousands of people on his hands, all collateral damage on the way to making sure his business thrived. Just in case you have any illusions about him."

"I'm not an idiot, Ressler. I know what he's done. Do you realize what _I've_ done? I'm sure you've put the pieces together by now."

Ooh, that struck a chord. He looked uncomfortable, as if he didn't want to believe what he was thinking. His shoulders slumped and he gave up what little was left of his attempt to appear physically intimidating. Whether it was because it was obviously not working or because he didn't have it in him anymore, she couldn't say.

"If you have any information on the whereabouts of the man who called himself Tom Keen, we'll be happy to take that into consideration while deciding the severity of your charges. Helping us bring in a wanted assassin will reflect well on you and your willingness to cooperate."

"I can't help you with that. I have absolutely no idea where Tom Keen is," she said, "but I am sure of one thing: he's dead."

Ressler clenched his jaw, visibly steeling himself before he asked what needed to be asked. "Why are you so sure he's dead?"

"Because I killed him."

"He was a dangerous man," he said, losing more and more confidence as he spoke. "I'm sure it was self-defense. No one would convict you for—"

"He was tied to a chair. I shot him point blank in the head, while he begged me not to."

Ressler's face grew more drawn with every word, as if there was still some small part of him that recoiled at the thought of her being capable of doing something like that. And, oh, how quickly he went from threatening her with life in prison to assuring her she would be cleared of her husband's murder! He couldn't seem to make up his mind whether he thought she was a naive innocent corrupted by Red's influence or the co-conspirator the FBI had always suspected her of being.

"Just in case you had any illusions about me," she added; Ressler looked ill.

"You still could have come to us," he said, weakly. "You didn't have to run. We could have worked something out together."

"You guys used my dying father as bait to catch me. Why the hell would I trust you to have my best interests at heart?"

Ressler frowned; he motioned for someone behind the mirror.

"Bring him in," he said.

Butterflies danced in Liz's stomach as the door creaked open and two heavily armed guards escorted Red into the interrogation room. He looked fine save for some swelling around his jaw. He hadn't put up too much of a fight, then, thank God. They shoved him roughly onto one of the chairs, yanking his arms around while they attached his restraints to the ring bolted to the table, but he didn't react to the shoddy treatment, no, he didn't even blink. In fact, he hadn't taken his eyes off Liz for one second since he shuffled through the door.

As soon as the guards stepped out of the way, Red and Liz leaned forward; the handcuff chains rattled through the steel ring as they reached out and clasped each other's hands. The lack of privacy didn't matter in that moment—the only thing that did was the physical connection.

Ressler scoffed, noticing the way their agitation started to fade at the contact. "Geez, the way you guys act, you would think you were…" He trailed off, realization dawning slowly. "Oh, for fuck's sake. I should have guessed. That's why you didn't want me to see your tattoo."

Neither one of them reacted.

"Hello? Keen? Reddington? Hey, I'm talking to you!"

At long last, Liz tore her gaze away from Red's. "What'd you say?" she asked, blinking up at Ressler like she only just noticed he was in the room.

He shook his head. "Well, I'm gonna have to see it now."

"See what?"

"Your tattoo."

"What does that have to do with—"

"Oh, give it a rest. How much of an idiot do you think I am? That's a rhetorical question, Reddington."

Red gave him a tight, amused smirk. Ressler rolled his eyes.

"Look, it's this simple—if you're not soulmates, showing me the tattoo would prove it. But you can't do that, because you are. There's no other logical reason to refuse. And don't go spouting anything else about privacy, Keen. You're a prisoner. You don't get to dictate that anymore. We didn't document every square inch of your skin when we brought you in out of respect for the good you did when you were on this side of the table. That courtesy can easily be revoked."

"Who's to say seeing her tattoo will even prove anything, Donald? I doubt you have every word I've ever said memorized. If you do, I have to say I'm flattered, but I'm already taken."

"Fine," he said. "We can handle that."


	3. Chapter 3

Grey resented Elizabeth Keen. Whoever the hell she was.

For a while he believed the whispers floating around Reddington's organization that surmised she was his long lost daughter. When she tried to kill him and he didn't retaliate, didn't even hold it against her, Grey thought it must be true. Why would a man like Reddington ever be that forgiving of an attempt on his life? _Multiple_ attempts. But then Grey saw them together and no—Reddington didn't look at her like a father looks at a daughter. Not at all.

The girl didn't look at him like a daughter would either. She looked at him like she used to look at her husband, before Reddington sicced Zamani on him. More so, even, because the affection she showed her husband always had an odd uncomfortable edge to it that Grey had never quite been able to decode no matter how long he observed them interacting. With Reddington, it was attraction and denial and conflict and longing, right from the start.

Reddington would move mountains for her, without a single thought for the consequences. Whispers of another sort started circulating, speculating about Reddington's past lovers and his tattoos and "_please, God, tell me, when they first met, what did she_ say?"

Grey balked at the gossip trying to romanticize the relationship between them. Surely, it would turn out to be as much a flash in the pan as the others, as long as it didn't kill him first. As far as Grey was concerned, the girl was a liability, to Reddington's business, his life, and the lives of all of his associates. She was a distraction, nothing more.

And Reddington was a fool. 

* * *

_Late November 2013_

Ressler stood over Aram's shoulder while the man cued up the security footage from the day Red turned himself in. Aram's nervousness was palpable; Liz saw fear in his eyes as his finger hovered over the play button. Ressler quickly lost patience with his hesitance and punched the button himself. Aram shot her and Red a silent apology as the footage started.

Tension thickened the air in the interrogation room, helped along by the sirens blaring second-hand through the monitor speakers. Watching her own apprehensive descent down the metal stairs towards her destiny, Liz was surprised by just how accurate her memory of that first meeting was. She would have thought her nerves and hindsight would have distorted it, but there it was in front of her in high definition. Her heart clenched and her grip tightened on Red's hand as he said the fateful words that seared their way up her arm that day.

_Agent Keen, what a pleasure_.

Despite the accuracy of her memory, the undercurrent of the interaction played differently now that she knew Red as a man rather than a monster. They've shared so many experiences, so many intimacies, in the scant few weeks since that first exchange, it was hard to believe so little time had past.

_Well, I'm here_, said Liz on the monitor, and Red's thumb moved over the back of her hand.

Ressler jabbed the pause button and started to cross the room towards the pair of them.

"It's on your right arm, isn't it?" he asked; Liz backed up as far as the restraints would allow when he reached for her.

"For God's sake, try for a little finesse, Donald."

"You want us to go over you with a fine-toothed comb until we find yours instead?"

"If you'd deign to uncuff me for a few minutes, I'd show you myself."

Ressler glared at him for a long moment before motioning for a guard to unlock Red's restraints.

"No funny business, Reddington," he warned.

"I wouldn't try anything that would put Agent Keen at risk of being caught in the crossfire."

Free from his shackles, Red turned his back to the room and gave Liz a tight smile; he made a show of rubbing his wrists and began stripping off his vest and shirt, presenting his bare torso with his arms spread. He slowly spun around, and could tell when Liz caught sight of his back by the sharp intake of breath behind him. By the time he locked eyes with her again, he knew she understood the implications of what she saw.

"Fate," he explained, with a shrug. Liz was dumbstruck; their conversation about fairytales and childhood fears in the backseat of his car suddenly made a heck of a lot more sense.

Ressler eyed the two of them suspiciously. "You wanna tell me what the hell just happened?"

"I believe Agent Keen has had a revelation," Red said, still holding her gaze.

Ressler rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the matter at hand. He scoffed when he located Liz's words. "Over your heart? Could you be more of a cliche?" He motioned for Aram to come over and snap a few photos of the tattoo.

"We don't get to choose where our tattoos are any more than we get to choose our soulmates. Life would be so much neater if we could, wouldn't it, Donald?" Red replied; Ressler scowled.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Reddington, but would you please turn your head so there's no shadows obstructing your tattoo?"

"No need to apologize, Aram," Red said, with a warm hint of a smile. To Ressler, he asked, "Are you satisfied with mine or are you going to needlessly compel Agent Keen to show hers as well?"

"You keep saying Agent Keen like it still means something. She's a criminal now, just like you."

"Of course. And there are certainly no criminals in the FBI." Red sat down, still unrestrained, and took Liz's hand again.

Ressler shot him another black look, but said nothing.

"So, what now? Are you going to lock us up again and throw away the keys? Interrogate us until we confess to every unsolved mystery in the last decade? Bury us in a deep, dark hole in the ground and forget we exist?

"As tempting as it might sound to get rid of us, we'd be more valuable to you in other ways."

"Valuable?"

"The Blacklist," Liz supplied, following the flow of Red's thoughts as easily as if they were her own. "You're passing up a huge opportunity if you don't put us to some use."

Ressler regarded them for a long, silent moment, contemplating. "I don't see any reason we can't pick back up where we left off," he said. "I'm sure Cooper will sign off on it."

"That's unusually sensible of you. When did you learn how to play ball?"

Ressler shrugged. "All I've gotta do is look at it like this—we get two informants for the price of one."

"Excellent," Red said. "However, we have a couple bombs to drop on you first—not literally, Donald, unclench before you break something—but we have to have some assurances that our needs are met before we share them."

"What sort of needs?"

"Well, for starters, we won't be any use to you if we can't think straight." Liz lifted their clasped hands for emphasis.

"You want us to keep you together?"

"Last time I checked, you Americans were supposed to be against cruel and unusual punishment," Red said. "Or is that just the company line?" 

* * *

"'_It'll be nice and cozy_', he said. Nice and cozy, my ass." Liz fumed as she started to undress for bed, or what amounted to a bed in Red's old cell. She never dreamed she would ever be on this side of the glass. She couldn't say she enjoyed it; now she knew what a goldfish must feel like.

Red shielded her as much as he could, staring reproachfully at the most obvious camera, while she changed into the drab blue jumpsuit that would serve as pajamas. She tied the long sleeves around her waist in a makeshift belt, leaving her soft gray ribbed tank uncovered.

Red stripped down without shame or anything resembling shyness, a rather marked difference over how reticent he'd been to be shirtless around her before, even when they made love. Well, at least that mystery was solved. It never quite jibed with how open he was with her sexually in every other way.

He slid his arms into the sleeves and went to work on the line of buttons; Liz bit her lip. It was madness to find him so appealing in the shapeless jumpsuit, but the way the fabric stretched across his shoulders stirred something in her she had to consciously tamp down. Judging by the way he closed his eyes and sucked in a breath through his teeth, he sensed the direction of her thoughts anyway.

"Careful," he warned. She gave an offended huff and he watched her warily as she crossed the tiny cell, frowning slightly when she crouched in the corner and wrapped her arms around herself.

"Lizzy—"

She glared up at him, his remorse infusing every inch of her body—guilt for chastising her, for the situation they were in, for everything.

"If you try to apologize for getting me into this mess right now, I swear I'll try to kill you again," she snapped, cutting him off. "I don't regret what I've done to get here. I don't regret you."

His frown deepened. "That's not going to do you any favors with the powers that be and their hidden ears. What if someday you decide you want to—"

"I'm not going to. I'm not gonna pretend I'm not with you by choice to save my own ass. I won't throw you to the wolves like that. I mean, my God, Red—you're my soulmate, you're…we're…" She trailed off, blinking rapidly to stave off the tears that burned behind her eyes.

Red swallowed hard. "Come here," he said; he stretched out on the metal cot as best he could and held up his arm so she could tuck herself against him. "We've had enough practice today to last us for a while."

She pulled his arm around her, feeling some of the lingering tension between them fade. "Is it getting any better?"

"Worse, actually." He pressed a kiss to her hair. "It's the stress, I think. When we were separated earlier, my thoughts were… ugly." He traced lazy patterns over her abdomen. "I've always been a protective, possessive man, Lizzy. All this has done is turn up the dial."

* * *

Ressler sat glued to the night-vision security feed like it held all the answers to the universe. Not much had changed for at least an hour—Reddington and Keen slept as soundly as possible spooned together on the narrow steel cot under a thin blanket, with Keen's head pillowed on Reddington's arm—but Ressler still couldn't convince himself to look away.

Soulmates. He shook his head. He should hand in his badge for not figuring it out sooner.

It should have been obvious, really.

The way they always stood much too close to each other for two people who had ostensibly met so recently, like they were playing a game of chicken with their personal space and neither one wanted to lose.

How defensive Keen was over her tattoo, with no real reason to be.

How defensive Reddington was over _Keen_.

None of it made much sense until now.

He sighed. He wasn't unsympathetic to their plight, now that he understood what he'd been witnessing. The itch from being near your soulmate for the first time could be distracting in the extreme, especially when you can't acknowledge it or do anything about it at all. He'd seen it time and time again, although he had to admit he'd never seen two people still so caught up in each other months later. It was supposed to settle eventually; it usually did.

It was clear Reddington had been blindsided by this soulmate bullshit as much as Keen had. While Ressler didn't doubt he was every bit as ruthless and dangerous as he always had been—perhaps more so with someone to protect other than himself—even he had to admit this Reddington was a changed man. Had been from the moment Keen sat down in front of him in that stiff-backed metal chair.

He would get them a pillow and a proper blanket tomorrow, maybe even a thin mattress if he could swing it. As much as it pained him to admit it, Reddington was right—there was no need for petty cruelty.


	4. Chapter 4

essler took a swig from his glass and propped his feet on his desk.

When he started drinking earlier that night, he hoped it would settle him, or at least take the edge off the anxiety that had been plaguing him since he sat down across an interrogation table from his ex-partner to question her about absconding with a criminal mastermind. Now, as he sat nursing his umpteenth tumbler of whiskey, it had only succeeded in loosening his tongue and making him more than a little tipsy.

He hadn't been feeling much like himself lately. Ever since Reddington surrendered, he'd been slightly off, but it only got worse as time went on and the stress of working alongside the man who used to be his target began to take its toll.

Being a part of the task force should have been the culmination of his life's work. What more could he ask for? He was putting a major dent in the criminal underbelly of the world and helping save countless lives everyday in the process. Sure, he couldn't really bring Reddington to justice with that immunity deal hanging over his head, but taking out his blacklisters was enough of a worthwhile endeavor to put up with the loss of the satisfaction of bringing him in.

For the most part, at least. Ressler still wanted to wring Reddington's neck more often than not. The man took every opportunity to make him feel inadequate, to undermine his authority as an agent, to try to humiliate him in front of his superiors. Having a rookie like Keen jump down his throat all the time even though she was obviously unprepared for the responsibilities Reddington foisted on her was just icing on the cake. It was an unusual situation that no one could have possibly prepared for, but Ressler thought he dealt with the challenge with great equanimity and success.

Then Keen up and disappeared and everything changed again.

The aftermath of her disappearance was utter chaos. When they searched her abandoned apartment, the image of her idyllic home life collapsed like a house of cards. They found a box of cash and passports lying open in the living room, all seeming to belong to her husband, who was also conveniently missing. The shell casing Keen ran through the system matched the gun in the box, clearly implicating Tom Keen in the murder of Victor Fokin.

Had he kidnapped his wife after she discovered his double life? Had he killed her? That was a logical conclusion to make, but it didn't quite match the evidence. Why would he leave his go bag with all his aliases if he had run? Why was the entire apartment wiped clean of fingerprints? There would've been nothing out of place about Tom Keen's prints in his own home and yet there were none, as if someone else had been there who _didn't_ belong and worked very hard to hide it.

Ressler only heard from Reddington once after Keen's supposed kidnapping. He told Ressler in no uncertain terms that he wasn't interested in using the FBI's resources to find Liz Keen and in fact was not interested in working with the FBI at all now that she was gone. He had his own suspects in her kidnapping and would find her himself, he said, and then he proceeded to cut a swath of destruction through his enemies in search of her, to no obvious avail.

Ressler was surprised to find the world still standing after that failure, but now, of course, it all made sense. Reddington had only been putting on a show and she had been safe with him the whole time.

It was a stroke of luck an anonymous tip had come in pointing the task force in the direction of Keen's sick father. Ressler doubted they would have caught up to the two of them otherwise. Not that he'd ever admit that to Reddington or Keen. Both of them were insufferable enough as it was.

Fucking _soulmates_.

"Burning the midnight oil, Agent Ressler?"

Ressler jumped at the sound of Cooper's voice from the doorway, almost keeling over in his chair trying to get his feet back on the floor. "Sir?"

"Agent Malik said you wanted to speak with me before I headed home."

_Shit_, he thought. He'd mentioned something offhand to Meera hours ago and completely forgotten about it; he figured Cooper had already left for the night and he'd have a chance to sleep on his thoughts before he talked to him. Oh, well. He'd just have to wing it.

"Uh… You heard about Reddington and Keen, right?"

"That's what debriefings are for, yes."

"So… Soulmates, huh? Guess we really dropped the ball with that one. All the DNA tests and background checks in the world and we never thought, 'Hey, you know, maybe she's his soulmate, maybe that's the connection.' I mean, it was right there, staring us in the fucking face." He winced. "Um. Sorry 'bout the language, sir, I didn't—"

"Was there a point to this?" Cooper asked.

"Hell, I don't know, maybe. I'm just thinking out loud, brainstorming, you know. I've never seen soulmates who were so… soulmatey before, have you? Whaddaya think that's about?"

"Are you drunk, Agent Ressler?"

"Oh, no no no, I've only had a little"—he moved his fingers to indicate how much he'd had to drink with considerable difficulty—"well, I guess a li'l more than a little, at this point." He punctuated his explanation with a tiny giggle, but immediately schooled his features into something that vaguely resembled a serious expression. Cooper looked at him like he had ten heads.

"All this soulmate crap is such bullshit. I mean, you gotta have some sympathy for them, you know? They didn't ask for this. Everyone talks about finding your soulmate like it's the best thing that could possibly happen to you, but, frankly, sometimes it just sucks," he said, frowning slightly. "How was it for you when you met your wife?"

Cooper gave him an odd look. "Correct me if I'm wrong," he said coolly, "but I don't think that's any of your business."

Ressler kept right on talking despite Cooper's annoyance, unable to stop his stream-of-consciousness babble no matter how hard he tried. Why? Why couldn't he make himself shut up? "My tattoo is pretty vague. Maybe three people have said it to me first thing, so I've kinda gotten used to brushing it off. No one else ever had a matching one anyway. Hey, you know, I was wondering…"

"_What?_" Cooper snapped; Ressler flinched.

He cleared his throat and asked, "You-You think we can get them some pillows and some better blankets and things? That box was built to be an emergency holding cell. S'not really designed to house anyone long-term, let alone two people."

"I'll put in a request." Cooper turned to leave, but hesitated at the door. "Ressler?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Get some sleep. You'll make yourself sick if you keep this up." He looked concerned enough to make Ressler feel ashamed of himself. "They're not going anywhere. You can afford to go home."

He swallowed hard and nodded. "Thank you, sir."

Once Cooper was out of earshot, Ressler threw back the rest of his drink in one gulp and slumped in his chair, miserable.


End file.
